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As a trained military professional, John Walker is not a fan of unpredictable variables. Not a fan of unknowns.
Bob Reynolds has been an unknown variable since the moment he stepped foot into John’s life. Someone John couldn’t control, couldn’t understand, couldn’t put into a box.
Back in the incinerator trap, John thought he hated Bob. Really. The moment Bob stepped out, John had gritted his teeth and felt this rush of—something—wash over him. Annoyance, maybe. Frustration, probably.
He hated Bob for being there, for being a distraction for him in the middle of one of his most important missions. There John was, totally prepared to defeat the thief and get his slate wiped clean just as Val had promised, when out popped this random guy John couldn’t take his eyes off of.
That was the problem. John knows it now. He couldn’t take his eyes off Bob and his stupid fluffy hair and puppy dog eyes.
God.
When did he become such a girl?
Now that they’re on the Avengers—or, Avengerz with a Z for copyright purposes, but who really cares about that when they’re still the ones with all the press and the actual Avengers tower—John doesn’t need distractions. What he needs is to get back in better shape. What he needs is to keep his head screwed on straight for any mission that comes their way.
What he needs is to stop thinking about the goddamn basket case down the hall.
What he needs is to stop lingering in the hall of the kitchen just to watch said basket case cook breakfast, his gaze stuck on Bob’s hands—and then his back. His hips. The way his shirt rides up just enough to reveal the ghost of skin underneath.
What he needs is to stop bumping against the man in the joint living space just to feel that skin against his.
He—doesn’t.
Jesus, he’s like a fucking schoolgirl all of a sudden. He feels like he’s back in High School—no, worse, Middle School. Where he’s young enough not to feel ashamed as he whispers to Lemar about his schoolyard crush, but isn’t man enough to actually do anything about it.
He’s trained to kill for God’s sake. A crush shouldn’t be the thing getting in the way of a clear head.
Fuck, no, he’s too old for crushes.
He does not have some schoolyard crush on Bob fucking Reynolds.
“Hey, Walker.” Bob stands in the doorway of John’s bedroom. His usually wavy hair is wet, plastered to his forehead, and a towel is wrapped around his neck. He’s got on a comfortable pair of old gray sweats, but—no shirt. His abs—how the fuck does the man who skipped out on arm, chest, and leg day have those—are on full display.
“Uh,” John audibly swallows as he forces himself to make contact with the man, to keep his eyes from wandering down. Except, the eyes are somehow worse; dark blue eyes look back at him, full of secrets and mystery, like the blackened abyss of a lake.
Fuck.
He has a crush on Bob Reynolds.
“What’s up, Bob?”
John aims for indifference—maybe annoyance for being bothered—but he misses it by a fucking mile.
Bob turns his gaze away from John and to the doorframe, where he distracts himself with a wooden piece that sticks out, scratching at it with his thumbnail. “There’s, uhm.” He worries at his lip. A bundle of nerves.
“Out with it, Bob,” John says flatly.
“There’s a spider,” Bob finally says in a small voice. He gestures vaguely. “In, uhm. In my room.”
John raises an eyebrow. “And?”
Bob lets out a breath that might be considered a laugh—except he keeps fiddling the wooden piece as his cheeks fill with red. “I don’t… I don’t really like spiders,” Bob admits.
Bob’s shoulders grow tense after this little admission, like he’s expecting John to blow up. Expecting him to yell, to throw a pillow, to kick him out of the room for even bothering him with this information.
A part of Walker wants to; he doesn’t care about some spider, and he certainly doesn’t want to have to pry himself up from his king-sized mattress when sleep had been so close to claiming him just one minute prior—you know, until Bob so helpfully walked into his room without a shirt, kick starting his brain and making him feel like a live wire, riddled with a weird buzzing in his bones. Anxiety, maybe. Or, at least that’s what he’s going to tell himself.
Except, he hates this look on Bob’s face more. Hates that fear tense in his shoulders. Hates that any part of him believes that John might react as badly as his father. John isn’t a violent man. He isn’t.
“Can’t this wait?” John groans, childishly. He scrubs at his face. Is he really about to get up to kill a harmless little spider for a man that—for all intents and purposes—can’t be killed?
“Please?”
God fucking dammit.
John chucks his blanket to the side and clambers out of bed. “Fine,” he grumbles, “show me where the little monster is.”
Listen. Despite what the rest of the team might say, John isn’t a sucker. He knows when he’s being played. It’s just that, when it comes to Bob, it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not. He’s not capable of saying no either way. Not just with killing spiders, or helping take out the unbelievable amount of trash the tower somehow accumulates every week, but everything. Anything.
John’s not saying that Bob is playing him. The guy is too sweet, too much of a bundle of squishable anxiety.
It’s everyone else that’s a problem.
Somehow, the rest of the Avengers have found about John’s complete and utter inability to tell Bob no. And that goes exactly how you might expect: disastrously.
Most of the team only uses this knowledge to tease him or convince him to buy lunch when they’re already out. Nothing serious, and nothing he can’t twist into him just being a nice guy.
That goes out the window when Alexei learns about his predicament. He’s asked for food, drinks, new clothes, and—worst of all—his vote on Avengers merch.
That’s how he finds himself sitting at the breakfast table with his head slumped miserably against the table as Alexei stands beside him holding a box of Wheaties.
“I mean, come on, Mr. Walker. Just imagine it: our faces on the front of the Wheaties box!” He slams the cereal down on the table with a laugh. “What greater joy could there possibly be than that?”
John would quite literally rather be sent back to a shame room and pinned in place by a million shards of glass, actually, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he lets out a tired, “Shut up, Alexei. No one gives a damn about your stupid cereal.”
Alexei gasps in offense. “Wheaties is not stupid! All of the best athletes have been on the front!”
“It’s cereal,” Ava agrees, sounding just as miserable as John feels being stuck in this conversation.
“Ugh.” Alexei waves Ava off, “Do not mind the Ghost lady. She does not know. Come, Mr. Walker. Let us make the deal with the Wheaties box! Let us be heroes!” When that doesn’t get the reaction Alexei wants, he takes a few seconds before offering, “Bob said it was a good idea.”
John hates how just the name makes his skin tingle, makes him hold his breath in anticipation. “What, and just because Bob says so suddenly makes it not a dumb idea?” He manages, finally sitting up in his chair and running a hand through his hair.
There, to his other side, is Bob. When the absolute hell had he gotten there?
“It sounds fun,” Bob defends, weakly.
John growls before grabbing viciously at the Wheaties box. “Gimme that,” he snarls, dumping the contents savagely into his own bowl.
He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. The next week, they’re booking a photo shoot to be on the front of a damn box of cereal like a couple of cartoon characters.
Bucky Barnes is a 100-year-old no-nonsense ex-Hydra assassin who is always too tired for the team’s shenanigans—which is why John never sees it coming when he stabs him in the back.
Metaphorically speaking, obviously.
Still, he might’ve preferred a real knife; at least it would have ended John’s misery.
Instead, Bucky proves that he has always hated him by announcing one fine Saturday morning, “Walker, you’re staying behind with Bob today.” Like an asshole.
Sure, it seems innocent enough; despite how sneaky she thinks she is, everyone knows the mission in Peru is just an excuse to get them out of Val’s hair for a few hours. Not all of them need to go, and Bob could use some help around the tower.
Except, John sees the hint of a smirk on Bucky’s face and knows that he’s full of shit.
“What?” John argues indignantly, “why me? Why not…” he waves, floundering as he tries to come up with any name as his mind swims, suddenly drowning on the thought of, with Bob, with Bob, with Bob. “Yelena. She loves Bob. And famously hates Val. She’d love to stay behind.”
“No.” Bucky’s voice is flat and leaves no room for debate.
It doesn’t take too long for John to discover just why someone needs to stay back with Bob. He’s in a low, curled up in his bed, knees to chest, with his weighted blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. He’s got his bulky noise cancelling headphones on, but John suspects they’re just there to keep out the noise. Bob’s listening to nothing but that deep dark void in his head.
Fuck, why couldn’t Yelena stay behind? She’s much better about dealing with his lows than John—who, quite frankly, can’t comfort anyone. He doesn’t know how to be present in a room long enough to empathize anymore. At least, that’s what his wife says. She knows him better than anyone.
John audibly groans as he sees Bob there, a pile of pity in his bed, and he tries to chalk it up to impatience—no matter what the rising knot of worry in his gut says—as he stomps into the room.
“Come on, Bob,” John moans, like a petulant child. “Stop wallowing and come watch a movie with me.”
Bob doesn’t so much as move.
Shit. Is the twerp really going to make this hard?
“Bob, seriously—” John starts, crossing the room so he can stand in front of Bob. He stops short when he realizes that Bob’s crying. His cheeks are wet, and his hands—curled tightly around the outer edge of the blanket—are as black as ink. As black as the void. “Shit. Bob, hey.” He crouches down beside him, reaching out to rest a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
Bob flinches away before he can land a firm grasp, and his hand slips into air.
“I’m sorry,” Bob whispers, his voice shaking. Guilty, but afraid, too. The shakiness of someone afraid that if they speak too loudly, they may draw the attention of something dangerous.
John lowers himself fully to Bob’s level, his knees digging into the laminate flooring as he tries to ignore the tearing in his chest as his heart breaks. “For what?” He finds himself whispering too. Like the void is this monster in the closet, lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce.
Maybe it is. Who the hell knows?
“You staying here with me.” Bob looks up at John, and his eyes are swimming in guilt as he takes a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t have to babysit—”
“No one’s babysitting anyone,” John cuts in, frowning. “We’re a team. We look out for each other.”
“Yeah, but…” Bob brings the blanket up closer, blocking his lips to muffle the already too-quiet sound of his voice. “I know you don’t want to be here.”
“Are you kidding?” John reaches out again and plants a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He hopes it makes Bob as grounded as it does him as he squeezes and says, “do you know how shitty Peru is this time of year?”
Bob’s eyes widen as he lets out a shocked laugh. Color seeps back into his fingertips. “Pretty shitty,” he says with a nod.
“Between you and me,” John leans in conspiratorially, “the other losers drew the short end of the stick. We’re the ones with Door Dash and a whole list of real bad action movies at our fingertips.”
Bob scrunches up his nose, but there’s finally light in his eyes. “You want to watch an action movie?” He asks. “What, don’t get enough of the action in real life, you have to watch it, too?”
“That’s what makes them bad, Bob,” John says. “We’ll be able to point and laugh and say, ‘that’s not how that works.’”
Bob shakes his head as he pulls the blanket down. Finally, he’s starting to come out of his cocoon. “That sounds awful.”
“Well fine, if you wanna look a gift horse in the mouth,” John scoffs, rocking back to sit on his butt, sticking his hands out behind him as he looks up at the other man. “What do you want to watch, then?”
Bob shrugs his shoulders and looks away. “I dunno. Something I don’t really have to think too hard about. A comedy, maybe. Or a romcom.”
John groans. Of course, he’s the type to pick a boring romance movie over action. “I’m not watching the Notebook.”
Bob laughs—giggles. “The Notebook isn’t a comedy. It’s, like, serious. I cry every time.”
“Yeah. Me too. Those are called tears of boredom,” he snarks back without any actual heat.
“You’re just not watching the right movies.” Bob insists.
Bob’s moved, propped up on his elbow as he looks at John, enough of him unburied for John to actually have a good look at him. He’s in his usual blue sweater, the one that makes him look cozy and soft and huggable.
No, God. He is not huggable. Now is not the time to think about that.
John shakes the thought out of his head, trying to hide his awkwardness with a laugh. “And you’re the resident movie expert of the house, are you?”
Bob nods in affirmative, a growing smile on his lips. “Compared to you,” he teases.
John laughs and sits forwards just to shove the man in mock offense. He stands, crossing his arms. “Fine. If you’re such an expert, what should we watch, then?”
Bob considers that, for a moment, before shooting John a wicked smile. “It’s a surprise.”
John groans. “You know I hate surprises.”
“That’s what makes them so fun!” Bob says, far too brightly.
God, he’s too cute for his own good.
“Fine. Fine.” John huffs, then points at him. “But I’m picking our snacks, and what we get for dinner.”
Bob hums, then tilts his head at him. “Can we get some Skittles? The regular ones, not the sour.”
John puffs out a breath of air. “Sure, fine.” He turns to the door. “Whatever, just have the movie ready downstairs in 30 minutes or I’ll start eating without you.” He walks out, shutting the door behind him without looking back. Bob’s laugh sneaks out after him, and it does something weird to his chest as he walks away.
He really, really needs to learn how to say no to Bob. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take. Sure, okay, so Crazy, Stupid, Love was actually a good movie, and sure, he had a good time on the couch pigging out on pizza and popcorn, guzzling down Root Beer like he’s never heard of a thing as too much sugar.
What he can’t take is that, somehow, it’s become a thing, now. Bob standing in his doorway, remote in hand, nerves making him look at the floor or the door or anywhere but at John as he asks, “wanna watch something with me?” Of course, John says yes. Because the word ‘no’ slips entirely out of his vocabulary when Bob’s standing in front of him with a question on his lips and hope in his eyes. So they sit on the couch together, so close he can feel the heat against his skin, prickling the hair on his arms. They sit in relative silence. Quiet enough that John can hear Bob’s breaths underneath the audio of the movie. Every once in awhile, Bob will move in closer so he can get the shared snacks easier. Their fingers graze against each other as they reach for the popcorn, and sometimes John swears his brain plays tricks on him because Bob’s fingers feel like they linger against his longer than needed before pulling away.
What John’s trying to say is that these nights are fucking torture. They’re worse than the damn shame rooms. At least there, he knows what to expect—at least there he’s in relative isolation, away from his racing mind, and the scent of Cinnamon that clings to Bob wherever he goesand the touches that send a scream through his mind. Of want, and shame, and desire, and horror all at once.
That’s where he finds himself now: sitting against the sofa with one arm resting lazily across the armrest, a popcorn bucket in his lap, staring at—but not quite comprehending—the movie playing on the screen. He doesn’t know what’s happening, who the characters are, or anything. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the title. His mind is mush.
Bob in the seat directly beside him, leaning against John as his eyes droop tiredly shut. He has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, like he’s so comfortable he just might pass out right then and there. He yawns, and then his head falls effortlessly against John’s shoulder. Like it’s always meant to be there. Like they fit so well together, it’s almost natural.
“Bob?”
“Mmm,” Bob hums noncommittedly.
“Bob,” John says, a little firmer this time.
“Mhmm?”
John turns his head to Bob’s, and his face practically rubs against Bob’s hair. It’s—soft.
Shit, no, it’s not soft. It’s hair. Normal, human hair.
Totally normal hair… that smells surprisingly of lavender and vanilla. Fresh, and clean, and pleasant. He has to stop himself from closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in just to get a better whiff—he is not that type of creep.
“Bob,” he murmurs against Bob’s hair, “Bob, maybe we should go to bed now. We can finish…” he glances up at the screen. Nope, still no idea. “We can finish the movie tomorrow, okay?”
“No,” Bob whines, forcing his eyes open—not that they stay that way for long. “This is the good part. They’re…Yanno,” he yawns, and doesn’t finish his thought.
No, John doesn’t know. But he’s not capable of saying no, either, so John settles back into his seat and tries to ignore the fact that with the serum running through his veins, he can feel the rise and fall of Bob’s breathing—the gentle thump, thump thump of his heart. His other arm, the one closest to Bob, rests uncomfortably against Bob’s back now that he’s moved closer. When John moves his arm out, he—doesn’t move it closer to himself. No, of course not, because John’s a god damn idiot. And, like an idiot, he moves his arm around Bob, his hand grazing Bob’s side. Just one wrong move and they’d be… fuck, they’d be cuddling.
A swell of shame tangles up in his gut, bile rising in his throat as he considers what Bob may say when he wakes up to find himself wrapped in John’s arms. Would he be upset? Horrified? Worse, would he force a smile and pretend like everything’s fine?
Letting out a low sigh, John forces his arm down lower until his palm is against the other side of the couch cushion—until his fingers grip at the corners of the leather seats. He forces himself to have some restraint, for once in his life. He pries his eyes away from Bob and looks back at the TV screen, trying his best to focus on anything other than the man sleeping soundly against him.
When Bob finally wakes, the movie’s over. Had been, really, for a while—not that John cared. He could stare at the blank screen and listen to Bob’s content breathing for hours on end. The man turns to John, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.
“Sorry,” Bob mumbles. He hasn’t pulled away yet. Not entirely, anyway. His body is still against John’s, his leg brushing up against John’s hand as he turns.
“Don’t be,” John shakes his head. “’s fine. Glad you got some sleep.”
“But I missed the ending. And you were stuck, and…” Bob’s eyes widen as his brain whirrs awake. “Shit, you wanted to go to bed, I’m so sorry, I—”
“No.” John cuts off Bob’s shame spiral with a firm voice, frowning. “I said don’t be sorry, so don’t be, okay? I—liked the movie. I wanted to finish it.”
“Really?”
Fuck.
Bob’s looking at him with eyes of hope, like all he wants in the whole world is for John to like something he chose. Like all he wants is John’s approval. He leans in closer, anticipation tense in his shoulders, his breath hot against John’s face.
For a moment, John loses all sense of self and his eyes flit down to the culprit of the heat: straight down to Bob’s lips.
“Mmhmm.” John says, nodding, like he lost full control of his mouth—like he can’t talk like a normal fucking person.
Jesus. What does Bob do to his brain?
Bob smiles, and his lips stretch. They look soft. He bets they’re soft.
Wait.
John pulls away like he’s been stabbed, wincing at a non-existent blow.
“John?”
John shakes his head, desperate and quick. His head’s buzzing, the world all white like a flash grenade went off in his brain. Bob reaches for him, but John pulls away, stumbling up onto his feet as fast as he can.
He can’t do this.
He can’t fucking do this.
“John.” Bob stands, too, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.
John can’t fucking do this.
He shakes his head again and moves for the door.
“Walker!”
John steps into the hall, slamming the door behind him loud enough to stop himself from hearing if Bob calls for him to come back.
John finds himself in the one place he can ever truly clear his head: in the tower’s gym, facing the super-soldier approved punching bag.
Lemar always used to say that John solved his problems by punching, and he supposes it’s true. Now more than ever.
Some days, he can’t seem to make himself square up to the bag. Like he has blood on his knuckles only he can see, the desire to unleash this raging fire inside him that needs to be squelched. Every punch feels more and more like his knuckles against flesh, against bone.
Other days, when his brain is already screaming and he just needs something to do with his hands—when he just needs an outlet to let the pent-up aggression out—he’ll punch. He’ll keep punching until his knuckles are red and raw, until his muscles ache and he can’t take another swing. Until he falls to his knees, chest heaving, and he feels like he might have to crawl to the gym showers. It shuts his brain down like there’s this feral festering thing buried deep in his chest that takes over, and when he physically can’t punch anymore, he comes back to a clearer head.
It’s probably a fucked-up way to relieve stress, but he needs that now. He needs that feral takeover to wash away the lingering touches and soft lips and those big blue eyes.
He punches the bag and his knuckles ache. He doesn’t know what’s inside of the thing—concrete or cement, maybe, or some sort of filling—but he knows that it can withstand any punch he throws at it—knows that he can punch as hard and as much as he wants, and it won’t break.
That’s what he needs. Something that won’t break.
Even before the serum entered his blood stream, John had rough hands. Sharp edges. Teeth that bite. A tongue like barbed wire.
He breaks things. It’s what he’s best at. It’s what made him a good soldier—and a shitty Captain America. He shoots, and he punches, and he takes orders. He takes down teams and enemies and he wins his stupid gold medals. But he breaks people, too. Tears them apart with his impatience and callous remarks. He breaks marriages, families.
He’s tried to be softer. To be less of a dick.
It never works. He is who he is.
Bob is… soft. Soft, and sweet, and gentle.
John would break him in a second. Shatter him like glass. All it would take, really, is just a simple kiss. A simple compliment. A simple confession.
Bob doesn’t like him back. Of course he doesn’t. John’s nothing but a dollar store Captain America. A cheap rip-off. A soldier with a lifetime of regrets, a lifetime of mistakes. He’s not a Captain, he’s not a hero. He’s nothing but an agent with a bloodied suit and a taco shield.
A scream rips out of his throat as he punches, and the bag lurches. It’s bolted to the ceiling, and while the bag doesn’t break, the ceiling creaks. There’s a stress crack forming there, and while it’s still stable, it may not be able to handle another hit like that.
“Walker.”
John spares a passing glance toward Yelena standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a frown etched into her features. He wipes sweat from his forehead before getting back into his fighting stance. “What do you want, Yelena?”
Yelena moves into the room, her footsteps growing closer to him. “Walker,” she says again.
John grits his teeth and ignores her, punching at the bag.
Yelena moves to his side, close enough that he can’t ignore her anymore. “Walker.”
“Jesus Christ,” John holds out a hand to stop the bag from swinging before turning to Yelena. “What?”
Yelena frowns at him thoughtfully, tilting her head to inspect him. “What is wrong?”
He heaves out a breath, suddenly far too tired for this conversation. “What? Nothing.”
“No, do not do that,” Yelena chastises. “We don’t do that anymore. Tell me.”
“Nothing’s…” He stops, then sighs. He can’t lie to Yelena; if there’s one thing they’ve all agreed to long ago, it’s not to lie to each other—especially not about being okay. They can’t push each other away. He drops his hands to his sides like they’re lead. Too heavy to hold. “It’s complicated.”
“I am very smart.”
John laughs despite himself. “That’s… that’s very true.” He scrubs his hand through his beard, itching at the gruffness. “It’s personal.”
“It usually is,” she nods.
John throws up his hands. “What do you want me to say, Yelena? I don’t want to tell you. I can’t tell you.”
Yelena narrows her eyes as she looks him up and down. “Is this about Bob?”
Fuck her and her damn observation skills.
“No,” he snarls back, his voice filled with vile to hide the fact that he’s lying. Again. “It’s not about Bob.”
Yelena laughs. “You’re always so funny, Walker.”
“I’m not…” he sets his jaw and looks away. He drops the denial, and just shakes his head. “Does it matter?”
The laughter dies off like he’s smothered it with a pillow.
“Of course it matters. You matter.”
“I’m not saying I don’t. Jesus.”
“Well, if you matter, and this is upsetting you, it matters.” She nods once, then takes a step closer. “You’re upset. Bob’s upset. It matters. To you, to me. So just say it, whatever it is. Out with it.”
“I…” John shakes his head. If he keeps gritting his teeth, he’s going to chip one. “I was just thinking about how… I know that I’m an asshole.”
“You are,” she agrees, blunt but not unkind.
“And that I hurt people.”
“Sometimes.” She crosses her arms. “Usually the bad kind.”
Olivia flashes in his mind. Charlie. “Not always.”
“So you are a little cranky. We know this.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “We love you anyways.”
John pushes her hand away. “You don’t love anyone. We’re a team.”
“A family,” Yelena corrects, sternly.
Great, just what he needs: another family for him to break.
“Whatever. Point is, I’m not what you call a good person. We try to be, we help people and save lives or whatever, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still the man who killed a guy with the shield. That wore the stars and stripes of a country I swore to protect while doing mercenary work for a woman who couldn’t care less about our country or the safety of other people. I work for the woman who did… that, to Bob. And for what? A clean slate guarantee? Like that even exists.”
“We have all done things we regret, Walker.”
“Yeah, no shit.” He turns away, heading for the side of the room where he set his water bottle. He distracts himself with the lid, unable to look her in the eye as he admits, “I just… I look at Bob, and I see this guy, who despite all the shit the world’s thrown at him, is soft. And sweet. And…”
Yelana laughs. “Yeah. I know how you feel about Bob.”
John turns to her, eyes wide. “You do?”
“Yeah.” She laughs harder. “I’m not blind.”
John shakes his head and tries to hide his reddening cheeks by taking a swig of his water. “Right. Well,” he slams the bottle down. “It doesn’t matter how I feel, because he doesn’t feel the same. And even if he did…” He squeezes his eyes shut. Blood splashes across his closed eyelids. The sound of broken glass echoes in his head.
“What?” Yelena’s voice is surprisingly soft. “What is it, Walker?”
“I don’t…” he shakes his head. His chest tightens. Tears prickle at his eyes and he has to pinch the brink of his nose—the side of his eyes—to keep them at bay. “I don’t want to hurt the guy, okay? I don’t want to break him like I do everything else.”
“Hey, you do not break everything.” Yelena’s arms wrap around him, firm and grounding. “Do you like to punch things, sure. But you do not break things. Trust me, I know the type who break people down. It is not you.” She rests her chin on his shoulder, her voice soft and melodic. “You’re not a good person, but you’re not bad, Walker. Do you know what the difference is?”
John just shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
“Intention.”
The words fall heavy on his chest.
“Is it your intention to hurt Bob?”
He shakes his head again, slow.
“No. Of course not. Because you are not a bad person, Walker.” She breaks from the hug and places her hands on his shoulders. “Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.” John sucks in a breath, squaring his shoulders as he finally looks up at her. “Why not?”
“Bob isn’t breakable.”
For a long moment, he just stares at her as he tries to piece together what she’s trying to say. He blinks, and then blinks again.
Bob? Their Bob? The man who has panic attacks and begs people to kill any small spider he comes across? The man whose dark side has literal superpowers that could engulf the entire world in their own personal hell?
“I could manage,” he says, flatly.
“Stop it.” She punches him in the shoulder, scowling. “I’m being serious.”
“Ow,” John pulls away from her, rubbing his shoulder. “Yeah. Me too. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m obviously very strong.” He gestures to the crack in the ceiling. “And destructive.”
“And in case you haven’t noticed,” she says, slugging him in the other shoulder. “Bob is too. Bob is very sweet, but he is strong. Stronger than you or me. We would not be able to take him in a fight, remember?”
“Hard to forget,” John grumbles.
“And he’s brave. Very brave. I know you know this.” She pokes him in the chest.
He doesn’t understand how this hugging session got so violent.
“Stop making him out to be this fragile, broken thing.” Yelena scowls. “He’s not. You know he is not. He is strong, and brave, and very capable of making his own choices. You do not need to handle him with gloves like he will break. Because he will not. He was shot, like, two hundred dozen times, and he does not even have a scratch. You telling him you like him will not hurt.”
John frowns at Yelena, rubbing at his shoulder as he digests her words. Her punch doesn’t even hurt anymore, but he still feels the impact of it. The impact of her and the truth of it all like a knife between the ribs.
He’s bleeding. Or—he feels like he’s bleeding. He feels like there’s this big gaping hole in his chest, like he’s been torn open and dissected. Like Yelena tore out his heart and dug into the very center, leaving him open and raw and vulnerable.
She’s looked into his very soul, it seemed, and John doesn’t even know what to do about it. All he can do is wrap his arms around himself, massaging his shoulders to distract himself.
She’s cut him open like a heart surgeon performing without any meds to make it easier to bear—but she’s also fixed him, too. Brutally efficient, she’s cut him open but given him exactly what he needed for his heart to keep on beating.
Of course, she’s right. Bob’s not breakable. The opposite, really, considering he’s physically indestructible. It’s stupid to think that John could break him by just being near him. By holding him close, or thinking about his lips…
God. He shakes his head. Enough with the damn lips already.
“Okay,” John says with a reluctant sigh. “I get it. He’s strong, or whatever.”
Yelena nods. “He is. So stop being so dramatic and tell him how you feel.”
“I—what?” John scowls at her. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Weren’t you just saying how strong you are?” She crosses her arms. “If you were really strong, you’d stop doing this whole song and dance and just tell him. Really, this whole fawning over him thing is just embarrassing.”
His cheeks grow warm and he ducks his head to keep it hidden. Her words are like acid, burning his skin and sending a wave of nausea through him.
If you were really strong…
He is. He is strong. There’s enough serum coursing through his veins for him to stop a semi-truck with his bare hands. And guts? That’s something he’s always had—that’s what made him the right fit to replace Steve as Captain America.
But you weren’t the right fit, he thinks bitterly. He’d lasted… What, two weeks as Captain America? And the whole time, the pressure built on him, pressing down on him more and more until he had the whole world in his hands—until he couldn’t hold it himself and he had to take the serum just to have a fighting chance—and he let it crush him.
Three metals of honor, with top marks in speed, endurance and intelligence.
And still, he hadn’t been enough.
He’s never enough, in the end. Not when all he knows how to do is punch his way out of every problem.
He wasn’t enough to be Captain America, and he’s not enough now—not enough for Bob, as sweet and perfect as the other man is. He’s certainly not strong enough to brave the conversation about feelings. This whole time, he’s chased off the thought of being with Bob because he’s too strong—too destructive. But, maybe the problem is that he’s just not strong enough.
“I’m not fawning,” he says eventually.
Yelena snorts. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you need to tell yourself.” She pats his shoulder, then turns away, clearly done with the conversation. “Whenever you decide to grow a pair, use them to tell Bob you like him. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
He shakes his head, laughing as Yelena leaves. Maybe Yelena’s right. Maybe the first step in proving he’s actually strong is doing the one thing that scares him most.
After his workout—and the longest shower of his life, where he stood under the water questioning whether or not he should just drown himself and save himself the trouble of breaking his heart first—he finds himself in front of Bob’s door. It’s late, definitely far too late for a talk, but John’s sure that if he doesn’t at least try to do this now, he’ll never get the courage to do it again.
So, with shaky hands and a twisted knot in his stomach, John knocks.
“Bob?” He calls. “You, uh, you awake?”
At first there’s no answer, and for a long horrified second, John worries that for once Bob’s actually asleep at a reasonable time. But then, as the second turns into two, then three, he hears movement. Feet padding across tile.
Bob opens the door a crack and peaks out. “John?”
“Hey,” John rubs the back of his neck. “Listen. About earlier…”
“It’s okay,” Bob starts, but John just shakes his head.
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have ran out like that. I was being a dick.”
“You’re not a dick,” Bob says. His voice is like honey, and John’s brain gets stuck in the sticky sweetness of it.
“I…” John stops and takes a deep breath. “Can we talk?”
Bob shrinks back and cowers behind the door as he whispers, “I thought we were talking.”
John’s heart sinks, and he can’t help but ask—as pathetically as possible, “Bob, please?”
Somehow, that’s all it takes for Bob to open the door and slip out into the hall. The man fidgets with his fingers, tangling them up and unwinding them again and again as his eyes dart from the floor, to his hands, to the wall, and then back again to avoid looking at John. Still, he’s there, which is really more than John could hope for.
“What do you wanna talk about?” Bob asks.
“Uh.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt as the hall suddenly felt entirely too hot.
He really should’ve googled, “how to ask out your roommate without sounding like an idiot” on the way here.
“Well… Uh… Heh.” He lets out a humorless laugh.
Bob chances a glance up at him, his lip twitching up in a smile. “Are you nervous?”
“What? No! No. No, definitely… definitely...” He pulls at his collar again. “No.”
Bob’s smile widens. “I’ve never seen you nervous before.”
“I’m not nervous!” John all but shouts, his cheeks flushing red.
Bob flinches at the sound, his smile falling as he looks back down at his hands.
God, could this go any worse?
“Shit, sorry, I just…” John scrubs at his beard, looking away. “You know, I always said that, if there’s one thing I had, it’s guts, but…”
“Yeah. I think I saw that interview.”
John turns back to Bob, searching his demeanor. “You… watched my interviews?”
Bob shrugs. “I mean, yeah.” Color spreads through Bob’s cheeks, and he bows his head down more, his fidgeting growing worse. “I wanted to know more.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.” Bob winces, then glances up at him with an apologetic smile. “Is that weird?”
“Not any weirder than you being in my head,” John teases.
That gets rid of some of the growing tension between Bob’s shoulders. He laughs, relaxing a bit, and even the fidgeting seems to lessen. Bob looks down at his hands, chewing at the inside of his cheek before offering, “I—like learning about you.” He flinches. “I-I mean, learning more about all of you guys.”
“Yeah?” John smiles. “You’re not scared off by the whole… killing thing?”
“I think everyone’s killed people here,” Bob says. “I mean, I don’t specifically remember killing anyone, but I also sent like all of New York into a deep dark void for ten minutes, and that’s gotta be worse.”
“Gotta be,” John agrees with a laugh.
Bob smiles. “I just mean, you don’t scare me, Walker. If anyone scares me, it’s definitely Bucky.” He leans in close and stage whispers, “when he stares, it’s like he can see into me, and I don’t like that.”
John let’s out a breathless laugh. “He’s got a serious staring problem.”
Bob laughs, and John can’t help but close his eyes. Relish in the sound of bliss.
“Walker.” Bob takes a step closer to him. When John looks up, Bob’s just—there. So close, he can feel his breath on his neck. He looks into his eyes, those deep pools of blue, and draws in impossibly closer.
“Yeah?”
Bob’s eyes scan his face, and then flit down. If John didn’t know any better, he’d swear he’s staring at his lips. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Uhm.” John’s eyes go down to Bob’s lips. “Funny enough, I don’t totally remember.”
“Oh.” Bob lets a breath of air, and his lips are there. Right there. “Since we’re here, I had something I wanted to…”
John pries his eyes back up to Bob’s. “Yeah?”
“Well,” Bob leans in, and his lips are practically on John’s. So close, John can almost feel them against his. “I just wanted…”
“Yeah?”
Bob closes his eyes, letting out a breath. The air is hot against John’s skin.
Then, before John can make any guesses as to what he’s going to say, Bob closes the gap between them.
Their lips press together, clumsy, but unmistakable. John very nearly stumbles back in shock, except, he can’t move. Not when Bob’s lips are on his, just as soft as he expected them to be. Soft, and sweet, and perfect.
Want trumps any rational thought, and John reaches up, grasping at Bob’s neck to pull him in so they’re flush against each other. Their bodies fit together perfectly, and if John really tries, he’s sure that he can pull Bob in close enough that they can click together like a puzzle; two broken bodies coming to form something bigger than themselves. Better. Cracks and torn off edges of each other sliding into place so perfectly that they were always meant to find each other at this point in their lives.
Greed takes over, the serum making the want so much stronger, and John finds his touch growing harsher as he brings his other hand to Bob’s back. He’s never felt such desire before, he’s sure. It’s insatiable. One taste of Bob’s lips and suddenly he needs it more than air.
No, not just the taste of Bob’s lips—it’s the entire sensation of him. The taste, sure, but also the feel of his body against his own. The smell of Lavender and cinnamon. The thrum of Bob’s heartbeat against his fingertips.
Here and now, John needs Bob more than air. More than life. More than anything at all.
Bob’s own hands wind their way into John’s hair, his fingers gripping at the strands.
A moan rises in John’s throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s from pain or pleasure or both, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as it’s out of his lips, Bob’s tongue is in his mouth, and all he can think is more, more, more.
Shit.
Is this Sentry? Does he have some sort of all-powerful super kiss?
Does it matter?
No, John decides, dazed. Who gives a shit?
He pushes Bob against the wall, his hands moving down to Bob’s waist. His fingers slide under his sweater, the tips pressing firmly into skin. Bob pulls back—just long enough to gather air into his lungs, his chest heaving—and then his lips collide against John’s once more.
John grinds his hips against Bob’s, running his fingers over bare skin. Bob’s skin feels soft, but—firm. Strong.
Fuck, he feels dizzy. Drunk on want, on pure desire.
“Shit,” Bob breathes, pulling away for air. But John doesn’t need air, he needs more. His mouth goes to Bob’s neck, biting at skin. Bob moans, his throat humming against John’s lips, but that just makes him press in deeper. He makes his way down to the nape of Bob’s shoulder, his mind desperately screaming, mine, mine, mine.
Bob mumbles something. His name, maybe. John doesn’t know. All he knows is that Bob’s head is back against the wall, lips parted, and his fingers are firmly against John’s back.
Jesus. Yelena was right, Bob isn’t breakable. But if he keeps putting his hands on John like that, then John might just crumble beneath his touch.
What a hell of a way to die.
“What the fuck?”
John startles at the sound of Yelena’s voice and twists in front of Bob, pressing his back against his chest. He gasps for breath, adrenaline and hormones flooding through his veins as he looks at his other teammate with wide eyes.
“What part of what I said translated to ‘fuck him in the hallway’ in that peanut brain of yours, hmm?” Yelena’s standing in the entrance of the hallway, arms crossed like a disappointed mom. “What happened to just telling him you like him?”
“You were gonna say you like me?” Bob asks, breathless.
Yelana blinks, unimpressed, and John squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, might’ve—skipped a step or two.”
“Or three,” Yelena counters.
She uncrosses her arms and walks towards them. For a moment, John worries she’s going to hit him again for being idiot. He braces for the impact, but she doesn’t make it to them. Instead, she throws Bob’s door open. “Your room is just three feet in front of you, yes? I should not have to tell you to get one.” She then marches over to them, grabbing them by the collars. “Other people live here, you know? Which means, if you’re gonna get all gross, you do it in private!” She shoves them into Bob’s room and then slams the door closed. “Congratulations on finally sucking face. Tell me about it later. Do not show me again.”
It takes a minute before either of them can say anything. They just heave in air, and laugh, until Yelena’s steps are gone. The room’s still spinning, John’s still drunk, and he thinks maybe this is what withdrawal feels like. The itch under his skin, the pounding in his skull. The incessant need for Bob’s lips back on his.
“So,” Bob gulps in air. “You like me.”
“Yeah,” John nods. “You like me?”
“Oh, yeah.” Bob laughs, “So much.”
John smiles. “Okay. Cool.”
“Cool,” Bob smiles back.
And that’s all it takes, really, before John’s throwing himself at Bob once more. That smile.